


The lesser evil

by TheFierceBeast



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel/Demon Relationship, Angel/Demon Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergence, Crowmandriel, Established Relationship, Frottage, Kissing, M/M, Post-Episode AU: s08e10 Torn and Frayed, angstier than I intended, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-29
Updated: 2016-10-29
Packaged: 2018-08-27 17:37:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8410531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast
Summary: This is just a little fic to wish a happy birthday to Shotgun – a wonderful friend who I am most grateful to have met through this most excellent fandom <3An alternate ending for Torn and Frayed.TW for canon-compliant mentions of torture and a scenario that could be read as Stockholm Syndrome.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shotgun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shotgun/gifts).



“Alfie…”  
“My name is Samandriel.”  
“Samandriel. Sammy… no, can’t stand that name for some reason. May I call you Mandy?” Crowley’s voice is honey dripping. Every bit as sweet and warm as Naomi’s never was. When Samandriel closes his eyes for whatever passes here for not-sleep, he can still see it. The glaring, sterile glory of Heaven, blazing. Unsettled, he opens them, to mellow amber: candlelight; wood; the eyes of the man watching him. A light that keeps things hidden - half-shadowed things best not studied too closely - but that also allows rest. A space for imagination to fill in the gaps. Samandriel breathes a quiet laugh. He says, “Alfie will do.”  
  
 *  
  
Pain, like white light, obliterating all identity. Searing, screaming, flaying – familiar. In the spaces between the twists of the needles, Samandriel’s essence gropes for respite. Why is this familiar? Crowley's voice is there, rumbling and steady, translating with an edge of awe. Samandriel’s own vessel’s voice, monotoning, ancient words he has no prior recollection for. Another voice, buried deeper... Deeper in his memory, skewer-excavated, a pair of cold blue eyes...  
  
*  
  
"Alfie, Alfie, Alfie..." Crowley's voice is goose-down around that now-accustomed address. Samandriel can feel the smile tugging at his mouth, but he's still strangely shy of it. Too used to the rug being pulled from beneath him. Heaven programmed him, then threw him out, like an outmoded device. Hell cracked his software. Now he can see everything. It's eye-opening. Frightening. Saddening. But finally, his. He turns, twisting to look backwards over his shoulder. The King of Hell is lounging sideways across a pile of pillows, broad chest bare. The red damask bedspread is pooled across his hips, barely concealing his modesty. Samandriel has seen it all before. Crowley cocks an eyebrow and smiles a heart-stoppingly charming smile. He pats the mattress next to him. "Come back to bed?" He says.  
  
*  
  
He thinks he may be crying, but he can't quite tell through the blood running into his eyes. Secrets he never knew he had, Heaven's secrets, laid bare for the King of Hell.  He gasps in a dragging breath as Crowley delicately manipulates a screw. Crowley's voice is almost gentle. "What on earth did you think you were doing?"  
"Protecting Heaven."  
"Oh, Alfie. Like Heaven has protected you? They wanted to protect you so much that they did all your thinking for you." His adept fingers loosen another clamp. It shivers through Samandriel's vessel like revelation. Crowley says, "Protecting Heaven. Quite right. And what on earth do you think I’m doing?" A trickle of warmth slides slowly down Samandriel's cheek. His tongue darts out to catch it as if through instinct: salty, rich, vital. Crowley tuts. Wipes the blood trickle away with a swipe of his thumb. "Come on, Samandriel – you’re the Angel of Imagination. Use yours. Or does management upstairs have your balls in an even tighter vice than I currently have your pretty little head?"  
"You’re threatening Heaven." His voice is quiet, but he sounds defiant. Tilts his chin up. Feels the freedom of heavy restraints removed; his mind clearing.  
Crowley shakes his head almost sadly. "I'm protecting Hell. Defending my home from those who'd destroy it, just like you are, Samandriel." There's a strange expression in his eyes. Not so much pity as a weary kind of understanding. "The bad guys are only ever the bad guys if you're fighting with the opposing army."  
  
*  
  
The mattress dips as Samandriel crawls to him. That question in Crowley's voice: it's all it takes, every time. That choice. Harsh but fair. His time spent in Hell has convinced Samandriel of that fact: if he wanted to leave, he could leave. Sure, then he would likely be straight back on Hell's hit-list, purely by dint of his being an angel. But at least it's honest. He snorts a little laugh at the thought: straightforward, simple enmity. Crowley watches him like he's a holy work of art; reaches out, hooks a finger under his chin and guides him in for a kiss. Oh yes, and there's also that... That's something else Samandriel never had in Heaven. Crowley's mouth is so sweet it's hard to believe it's sinful, his tongue skilled and sure: Samandriel has become practised at pleasure. "There's my favourite little angel," Crowley murmurs. He sounds unguardedly fond and there's no possible ulterior motive now for him to keep Samandriel around other than because he wants to: Samandriel has already given him everything. That's what he reminds himself: pleasure for pleasure's sake, because what else is left? He swings a leg gracefully over Crowley's thighs, settling and rocking gently in his lap, separated only by the bedclothes, and Crowley groans, a delicious low purr, and tips his head back like he's the one being seduced.  
  
*  
  
"Do you think I enjoy all this? Getting my hands mucky delving around in your feather-brain?" As if to illustrate his point, Crowley wipes his hands on his apron: Samandriel blearily registers the bright fan of red. "I enjoy piña coladas on private beaches with expensive company. Trust me, sweet-cheeks, I would much rather kiss you than cut you, but I'm afraid this messy business just comes with the territory... When you're in charge sometimes you just have to step up and get the job done.”  
“Naomi.”  
“Mmm.” Crowley says. He pauses, head tilted, regarding Samandriel with bright shrewd eyes. “Think we might have burned that particular sensibly-shod bridge.”  
“No…” The fog is clearing too quickly now, a rewinding cinema reel of the past days’ torture, projected in negative: Naomi takes the place of his black-clad captor, inching the needles into, instead of out of, his skull. Samandriel gasps like he’s just remembered how to breathe. Crowley regards him dispassionately. He gnaws at his lower lip with perfect teeth.  
“Stings, doesn’t it? Finding out your nearest and dearest have betrayed you.”  
“They’re controlling us.” It’s not a question. Crowley raises his eyebrows, and nods. “Castiel…”  
“Probably.” Crowley sighs. “Dear Castiel. Heaven’s rebel. You want to be just like big brother, huh? Well, I’ll tell you – you don’t have the foggiest what darling Cassie really got up to. It didn’t take him long to climb into bed with me…”  
“He didn’t…”  
“Sadly, I don't mean in the, ah, Biblical sense. But we sure were chummy for a spell, pun quite intended. Gave each other a helping hand, as it were - again, figurative: more’s the pity, for him; didn't know what he was missing out on. Ah well. I suppose I should…” He tails off. Looks Samandriel over with an expression that’s almost approaching pity.  
“Are you going to kill me?” The shrieking pain in Samandriel’s head has been replaced with a tightness in his throat. A dizzy emptiness that makes his entire vessel feel as if it’s floating.  
“Kill you? Be a bit of a waste, that. Handsome boy like you. I thought I might let you go. You can take your dear Majordomo a message from me: back the hell off Hell, or Heaven will pay.”  
“Kill me.” Samandriel hears his vessel’s voice but it’s never felt less a part of him.  
Crowley narrows his eyes. “Beg pardon?”  
“I can’t go back there. I’ve told you things… things you shouldn’t know. Naomi… she…” He closes his eyes. “I won’t go back.”  
“And what if I won’t kill you? It was never my intention, cupcake.”  
Samandriel keeps his eyes shut. “Then let me stay. I’ve told you everything. Let me hide here.”  
  
  
  
*  
  
The first time he felt the King of Hell’s hands on him it had been a revelation in agony. The second time was a carnal epiphany. He shook as Crowley explored his vessel.  Undid and rewired it in ways infinitely more subtle than Naomi's tampering, until he felt - feels - bound by something frighteningly close to loyalty, born of soft praise and dissolute caresses. Now Samandriel's hands are steady. His voice doesn't falter. If he's fallen, then he's fallen willingly, eagerly, to spite a betraying sister. To follow a wayward brother. He barely remembers Crowley's blade in his flesh any more.  
Now, Crowley's hips roll, loose and liquid, the movement dragging the damask bedspread down, baring him. Bringing them closer, skin on skin. The King moans, appreciative, as Samandriel grinds against him, panting, playing his body with fatalistic enthusiasm. "Gorgeous, sweetheart." His voice is like a touch, ghosting down Samandriel's backbone. "Divine creature."  
Samandriel shudders, opens his eyes wide. He keeps them open, even when Crowley’s slip closed in pleasure.  



End file.
